My hands want a baby. Someone I can pick up and hold close to my chest where I know they are safe and still in my presence. And there we both can rest from our labors. I stop. He quiets. In unison we breathe.

Babies breathe faster, but my own breath cares not. If his is there I can sleep, and I will wake to check his breath, to reach my hand for his body where it rises and falls. And I will kiss him every day, every night.

Every day. His face was made for my kiss and dad kisses him too. With all of them he kisses through all the years they were pick-up-able. Every time you picked them up, and put them down, and kissed their face.